


Prompts

by zythepsary



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition, Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Drabble Collection, Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-06-07
Updated: 2015-10-09
Packaged: 2018-04-03 07:40:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 14
Words: 9,149
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4092679
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zythepsary/pseuds/zythepsary
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Assorted drabbles/ficlets from prompts.</p><p>Ships and character names are listed in the chapter titles.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Brontide (Iron Bull/Dorian)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Brontide - The low rumbling of distant thunder.

All that remained of the Qunari dreadnought was splinters, dragged onto the shore by the sea. Dorian could still feel the roar of the explosion knocking around his ribs. Smoke lingered in the air even though rain slipped from the sky in scattered patches, pouring buckets one moment and occasional drips in the next.

Dorian shifted his weight, grimacing. He and Iron Bull were sitting on a toppled tree, and the bark dug sharply into his thighs.

"Aptly named place," said Dorian, glancing up at the grey sky.

Iron Bull said nothing. Dorian hadn't expected anything else. An hour had passed since Bull slipped away from his Chargers and wandered into the woods, with Dorian close enough to be his shadow. In all that time, he hadn't spoken a word.

Dorian wiped the rain off his face. Cold had already sank into his robes; the soaked fabric hung heavily off his shoulders. He could hear Krem's laughter, rising faintly in the distance.

Thunder rumbled across the sky. Dorian flinched, remembering the blank look on Iron Bull's face as he watched the sea.

Ten minutes later, neither of them had moved.

"Bull," Dorian tried. He lifted his hand and hesitated for a long moment before he touched Iron Bull's shoulder. The rain-slick skin was stiff under his palm. "Let's go. Perhaps you've noticed the weather?"

Iron Bull didn't say anything. He rested his arms on his knees, folding his hands together, and bowed his head. Dorian watched raindrops slide off the tips of his horns.

"Please," said Dorian, as a last resort. Bull usually liked that word. "Come back to camp with—"

"Have I ever hurt you?"

Iron Bull's voice was barely more than a whisper over the steady rainfall. He didn't look up.

"No," Dorian answered, frowning. What an odd question. He squeezed Iron Bull's shoulder. "No, of course not."

"If I do," said Iron Bull quietly, his eye still focused on the wet ground, "will you tell me?"

To Dorian's horror, he realized that his throat was tightening. He waited for it to pass before he said, "I promise."

Iron Bull made a small noise and nodded jerkily. Dorian's throat tightened again.

"I promise," Dorian repeated. He slid his palm to the back of Iron Bull's neck. "You'll never hear the end of it."

Iron Bull's response was a dark chuckle. He scrubbed his face, sighing.

"All right," said Iron Bull. He reached over his shoulder and covered Dorian's hand with his own, linking their fingers together. "All right."

They sat in silence for a long time.


	2. Petrichor (Iron Bull/Dorian)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Petrichor - The smell of dry rain on the ground.

Dorian awakes with a dry, rotted mouth and a pinching ache in his back. His head is buried in the crook of his elbow, spittle dried and clinging to the corner of his mouth, and his other arm curls against his chest. Yesterday's clothing reeks of sweat and stale ale, and he is still wearing his boots. It rained last night; he can smell the cool damp, even through the stone.

This is not his bed.

He blinks and rolls onto his back, careful not to disturb the snoring giant.

Iron Bull is asleep beside him, sprawled out on his back with one arm stretched above Dorian's head and the other slung over his belly. His chest is bare, and those loud trousers hang low on his hips. Dorian looks away.

He doesn't remember much. Drinking in his quarters, and then at the tavern. Bull's hand on his back. A door, closing, then—

"You can stay," says Iron Bull, and Dorian nearly leaps out of his own skin. The lone eye opens. "It'll be bright outside. You won't like it."

Dorian shakes his head and rolls over, pushing himself up. He regrets it. His head spins, belly cramping, and he has to twist his hands in the sheets and breathe through his nose until the nausea passes.

"I should go."

The bed dips when Iron Bull shifts his weight. "Nothing happened."

"I'm aware," Dorian snaps. He isn't sore, or dirty. Doesn't smell like sex. And Iron Bull isn't that kind of man.

"We slept. It was nice."

"Well," Dorian tells the floor. He stands, brushing aimlessly at his clothing, and glances over his shoulder. "I'm glad it was good for you."

"It was." Iron Bull slips two fingers underneath the eyepatch, rubbing at the empty socket. "My door's still open, even if you just want to sleep."

Dorian snorts. He must have said something last night, if Bull is treating him so gently. And since he can't remember anything, it can only be something dreadfully embarrassing. He almost wishes they _had_ fucked. This would be so much easier.

He steps away from the bed, saying, "Thank you for such a kind offer."

"I mean it," says Iron Bull, when Dorian reaches the door. He scratches at his belly. "I like seeing you in my bed."

Dorian flees into the morning sun.


	3. Basorexia (Iron Bull/Dorian)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Basorexia - An overwhelming desire to kiss.

By the evening, the library is nearly empty. Iron Bull walks up the twisting staircase without making a sound.

Dorian is sitting in his usual chair, a book balanced on each knee. He skims one book and scribbles notes without looking at his handwriting, eyes darting over the pages. The only source of light on the floor is a tiny, conjured ball, hanging above his head.

When Iron Bull leans against the railing, Dorian stills for a moment, pen poised over his notes. He returns to his work without a word.

Iron Bull watches.

He wants to close the distance between them. They are three steps away, at most, and it wouldn't take long to lean down and capture Dorian's mouth with his. He knows Dorian will make a small noise, as though he's surprised, but his hands will be warm and he will sigh, murmuring something about rude interruptions.

But Dorian likes his space, so Iron Bull waits.

After a few more minutes, Dorian frowns. He pushes the parchment onto the opposite book and continues to write with his other hand.

"What," says Dorian, without looking up.

"Just visiting," says Iron Bull. He drums his fingers along the railing. "I missed you."

"You saw me this morning. Twice, if I recall."

"Three, if you count last night," Iron Bull says. They fucked when it was late enough to be early, and Dorian stayed the night, for once. "How long have you been working?"

Dorian hums and shrugs while he holds up his notes, squinting. The little ball of light follows his hand.

"You should take a break. Relax."

"Perhaps," says Dorian, which is usually his way of agreeing. He closes both books and stacks them together, placing the notes on top. "Stop looming over there in the dark."

Iron Bull pushes himself away from the railing and steps into the alcove, ducking away from the conjured light. It hums faintly, and the sound makes his skin itch.

Dorian tips his head back against the chair, gazing up at him. He's trying not to smile, but Iron Bull sees it.

"Better," says Dorian, and this time he allows the smile. He places the books on the ground and settles deeper into the chair, legs falling open. "Closer, if you'd like."

"I would," Iron Bull says, and leans down.


	4. Lalochezia (Iron Bull/Dorian)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lalochezia - The use of abusive language to relieve stress or ease pain.

Iron Bull grabs a Vint by the throat, squeezing. Arrows hurtle past them, drawing blood, but they won't be for long. He can smell poison in the air, sour and thick, and Cadash is cackling.

The arrows stop. The man chokes and falls limp, dying. Cassandra takes care of the remaining brute, which should be the last—

Dorian cries out.

By the time Iron Bull turns around, axe raised, the enemy is dead and crumpled on the ground, smoke rising faintly from the burned armor. Dorian clutches his bleeding arm, swaying.

"Oh, fuck me," says Dorian faintly. He stares at the blood seeping between his fingers. "This actually hurts."

Iron Bull leaves his axe on the ground and steps over the corpses, eying the wound. Looks like the blade cut through the robes at his bicep, but not deeply. Just enough to bleed.

"I know," says Iron Bull gently, because Dorian gets skittish when he's hurt. He tries to nudge Dorian's fingers away. "Let me see."

"Shitting fucking _balls_ ," Dorian curses, but he lifts his hand. Iron Bull touches his arm, angling for a better look in the dim forest light. "Ow, _ow_! Shit."

The wound is nowhere near as bad as it looks; Dorian is just a bleeder. This won't require stitches or surgery. All Dorian has to do is keep it clean, and the skin won't even scar.

But Iron Bull sees an opportunity, and has to take it. He keeps his face blank and lowers his gaze.

"I'm so sorry, Dorian. We'll have to amputate."

Dorian mutters something filthy under his breath. He makes a fist, tapping it lightly against Iron Bull's chest. "I strongly encourage you to go fuck yourself."

"Kinky," Iron Bull says, quietly enough that Cassandra won't overhear, and Dorian's mouth twists to hide the smile. He pats Dorian's pockets, searching for the bandages. "Here we go. I'll fix you up."

"It _stings_ ," says Dorian, grimacing. He lets Iron Bull bandage his bicep without further comment.

After, Dorian bends and flexes his arm a few times. He nods, satisfied.

"Good?" Iron Bull asks. He holds Dorian's arm, rubbing his thumb along the edge of the bandage.

"Fine. Still hurts, though."

"I can kiss it better."

"Very unhygienic," says Dorian, but his fingers dance over Iron Bull's forearm, drawing him closer.


	5. Concilliabule (Iron Bull/Dorian)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Concilliabule - A secret meeting of people who are hatching a plot.

Iron Bull stands in a dark, empty corridor and knocks on Dorian’s door.

A minute passes before Dorian grumbles something unintelligible and shuffles over to tug the door open. He looks sullen and tired, dark circles under his eyes, and he smells like wine.

“What do you want?”

“Just saying hello,” Iron Bull answers. He stays in the corridor, eying Dorian’s unkempt hair and wrinkled clothing. Looks like he hasn’t left his room in a few days.

“Checking up on me,” says Dorian, scowling. He pushes his hand through his hair, scratching aimlessly at his scalp. “I’m fine.”

“I know you are,” says Iron Bull, even though they both know that’s a lie. If Dorian needs to pretend, that’s okay. He remembers the look on Dorian’s face when he exited The Gull and Lantern, and the stupor he drank himself into during the trip back. He just wants to be nearby. “But I’m looking for company.”

Dorian fixes him with a hard look. “Did she send you?”

Iron Bull shakes his head. They talked about Dorian and what happened in Redcliffe, but Cadash wants to give him space. He doesn’t.

“I know what you’re doing.”

Iron Bull says nothing. He clasps his hands behind his back, waiting.

Eventually, Dorian rests his forehead against the door and grinds his teeth together. “And you’ll sit out here like a dog if I close the door, won’t you?”

“Yeah.”

Dorian yanks the door back and beckons him inside. Iron Bull steps over the threshold.

He hasn’t been in Dorian’s quarters before. He glances around, noting the books piled high on the bedside table and dark red curtains hanging over the windows. Two chairs are positioned in front of a fireplace that houses mage-made flame, radiating heat without any wood. The walls are lined with bookshelves and armoires, and a mirror rests on a small desk in the corner.

The room is small, but clearly lived in. Iron Bull likes it.

Dorian drops into one of the chairs, saying, “Have a drink.”

There are two open bottles of wine on a small table, but no glasses. Iron Bull lifts them both, sniffing, and hands the sweeter one to Dorian. He sits in the opposite chair and tries to get comfortable. His shoulders don’t quite fit, and he ends up leaning forward with his elbows on his knees.

“I didn’t think you were the type to go on a bender.”

Dorian chuckles. He balances the bottle on his knee, curling his fingers around the neck. “Oh, this is nothing. You should’ve seen me when I was younger.”

Iron Bull thinks about Dorian in his youth. A little slimmer. Longer hair, maybe. No mustache. Definitely with the same glint in his eyes. A little unhappier, he guesses.

“I bet you enjoyed yourself,” says Iron Bull. He drinks a few swallows of wine and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand.

“That’s one way of putting it,” Dorian replies. A small _pop_ sound escapes from the bottle as he thumbs its lip. “And you? You’re quite the hard drinker now. I imagine you were just as much trouble a decade ago.”

Ten years ago, he was in Seheron. He did a lot of things in Seheron.

Iron Bull shrugs. “I was working.”

“Right,” says Dorian slowly. He glances away and clears his throat before he drinks.

For a few minutes, they sit in silence. Iron Bull ignores his wine and watches Dorian, who steadily drinks the rest of his. The conjured flames hiss, spitting smoke.

“When’s the last time you left this room?” Iron Bull asks. Two days is his guess.

“This morning.”

Lie. Iron Bull lets him have it.

Dorian drinks the last of his wine. He licks his lips, sighing, and places the bottle on the floor. His eyes close.

“You should go to bed,” says Iron Bull. It’s not that late—the sun has barely set—but he can see exhaustion etched across every inch of Dorian’s face. He places his wine bottle on the small table, adding, “I’ll tuck you in.”

Dorian doesn’t answer.

It takes a long time for him to open his eyes again. He blinks, his gaze darting away from Iron Bull’s face.

“My father,” says Dorian and stops, pressing his lips together. He rests his elbow on the chair’s arm and slumps back, covering his eyes with one hand. “He wanted to—fix me.”

Dorian falls silent. Iron Bull waits, counting the seconds, but Dorian doesn’t speak again.

“You don’t need to be fixed,” says Iron Bull. He thinks Dorian knows this about himself already, but it can’t hurt to hear it again.

Dorian is already nodding, waving his free hand dismissively. “Yes, yes. I’m aware of that.”

“Good.”

A few minutes pass before Dorian speaks again.

“There was a ritual,” says Dorian quietly. His eyes are still hidden under his hand. “He—he knew people. They offered him their slaves, for the—well, the blood that he needed. I read their letters.”

“Pretty stupid to leave that kind of stuff lying around.”

Dorian snorts. “Yes. Although, two men discussing the transfer of human flesh is hardly a scandal back home.”

“No,” says Iron Bull, shaking his head, and they leave it at that. They both understand.

Dorian inhales slowly through his nose. He taps his fingers along his thigh.

“I thought it was a mistake. That I was jumping to the worst sort of conclusions. But there was a dinner party one night, and—”

His mouth twists, and his free hand curls into a fist. Iron Bull knows that his eyes are screwed shut.

This isn’t something that he needs to hear.

“Hey,” says Iron Bull, leaning forward. He tilts his head, trying to get a look at Dorian’s eyes. “You don’t have to tell me this.”

Dorian ignores him. “I paid a slave to eavesdrop. They discussed everything in front of her. Every _fucking_ detail.”

Iron Bull settles back, straightening his shoulders, and rests his hands on his knees. “And you left.”

Dorian nods. Iron Bull can hear the choked gasp rattling around in his throat.

He thinks about kneeling on the floor and holding Dorian’s hand against his cheek, kissing his palm. Standing behind Dorian, squeezing his shoulders and rubbing the back of his neck. Pulling Dorian into his lap, so he can hold Dorian to his chest and murmur kind words.

He wants to feel the tension in Dorian’s bones fade away under his touch.

Instead, Iron Bull says, “I wish you told me this before we went to Redcliffe. I could’ve knocked your old man out at least once.”

“That wouldn’t have solved anything.”

“Yeah, but I’d feel pretty great about it.”

Dorian’s shoulders shake with silent laughter, his mouth curving into a broad grin, but it doesn’t last long. He digs his teeth into his lower lip and sighs, scrubbing at his face.

“Bull,” says Dorian wearily, and lets his hand drop. He squints, blinking in the light from the conjured flames. Somehow, he manages to look very old and too young at the same time. “Bull, I—I think I want to be alone.”

Iron Bull knows he’s not leaving. He spent days in a caravan with Dorian, watching him drink and listening to him mumble and ramble about his father and Alexius and someone named Rilienus. He isn’t going to let Dorian sit in the dark with those thoughts. They’re the kind that fester.

“You can be alone near me.”

Dorian rubs at his face with both hands, groaning. “That’s not how being alone works.”

“I’ll be quiet.”

“You’re never quiet,” Dorian grumbles. He sprawls deeper in the chair, kicking the empty bottle across the floor. “Find me a book, then.”

Iron Bull stands and heads for the nearest bookshelf. He grabs a book at random, not bothering to look at the title, and brings it over to Dorian. He keeps a tight grip on the book when Dorian reaches for it, saying, “Read to me.”

“Oh, for—”

“It’ll keep me quiet,” says Iron Bull, and lets the book go.

Dorian glances at the title and thumbs the book open. There is amusement curling around his mouth, so Iron Bull returns to his chair.

“Fine,” Dorian mutters, and begins to read.


	6. "Kiss me." (Iron Bull/Dorian)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 13\. “Kiss me.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Originally posted on Tumblr.](http://zythepsary.tumblr.com/post/122040510033/13-dorian-bull)

There is nothing but desert in all directions. Dorian drags his boots through the sand, leaning his weight into his staff, and tries to match Iron Bull's pace. The Venatori have been putting up a tough fight, and they have found far too many slave caravans. He'd like to go at least _one_ day without seeing what his countrymen do to the rest of the world.

Trevelyan and Cole walk a few paces ahead of them. Cole is talking excitedly about Varric's new book, which even Cassandra isn't allowed to look at yet. Trevelyan interjects with questions, and Cole is happy to answer.

Iron Bull nudges his shoulder and offers water. Dorian shakes his head. He knows the dangers of walking too long in the heat without water, and he always keeps himself hydrated.

"More for me," says Iron Bull, shrugging, and drinks. He wipes at his mouth, sighing.

He's tired, even if he won't say it. Dorian has never heard him complain while they're walking. Back at camp, he might—rub his knee and groan, or tease Trevelyan about using a map for once—but he always waits until the journey is completed.

Trevelyan raises her hand and points, indicating something in the distance. Dorian squints and sees smoke—an Inquisition camp. He sighs with relief, gazing up at the dark sky. Another hour or so, and he can sit by a fire with warm food and a cold ale.

"Long fucking day," Iron Bull murmurs. He holds onto the handle of his greataxe and stretches, tilting to the side until something cracks.

"You know what might make it better," says Dorian, because it's nearing the end of the day and he's weary enough to think this is a good idea. "You ought to kiss me."

Iron Bull looks down at him, grinning. "Is that so?"

"Do I have to say it twice?"

"I like hearing it."

"Kiss me," Dorian tells him, and stumbles to a stop when Iron Bull leans down and does so.


	7. "Please don’t do this." (Dorian)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 33\. "Please don’t do this."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Originally posted on Tumblr](http://zythepsary.tumblr.com/post/122078339738/33-0).

There is a ritual. It is specifically designed for Dorian, to target his mind. To change it. Distort it, until nothing remains but what his father demands.

Dorian knows this. There is more than enough proof. He thinks about bringing it all to his mother, but she probably already knows. Has probably agreed to assist. Both of them are upset with his— _indiscretions_ , as Father puts it. As though a core part of Dorian's being is a social _faux pas_.

But he doesn't leave. Not yet.

Part of it is hope. Tragic, terrible hope that he is mistaken, that there is no ritual, that his father cares more about his own son than his legacy.

But of course, he is wrong.

"Dorian," his father says, bristling. He stands tall and proud, hands carefully folded over his ribs. His staff is within reach. "Dorian, you must—"

"Please," says Dorian, and he is mortified by the way his voice breaks, but he refuses to look away. "Please, don't do this."

His father says nothing. White hot anger takes over, flooding Dorian's skull until he is dizzy with it, and he curses and shouts and tells his father that he should be _ashamed_  for what he's attempted—that he has gone against everything he believes. That he is a fool, to think he is somehow better than all the other magisters, when he clings to the easy ways the moment he doesn't get what he wants. That he is a coward, and a liar.

When Dorian is finished, his throat aches. He sucks in a quick breath, waiting.

"Get out," his father says. He is quiet, and his hands tremble. "You are no son of mine."


	8. "If you keep looking at me like that we won't make it to a bed." (Iron Bull/Dorian)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 34\. "If you keep looking at me like that we won't make it to a bed."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Originally posted on Tumblr](http://zythepsary.tumblr.com/post/122078767623/34-for-adoribull).

Iron Bull stands on the battlements, watching Dorian and Vivienne lead a group of young apprentices into the courtyard. Young runaways, from some southern Circle. They were scared and hungry when Inquisition soldiers picked them up on the plains, and now they follow Vivienne around Skyhold, desperate for her approval. He's surprised to see them with Dorian; a few are convinced he's a blood mage. The stories about Dorian dragging life back into corpses probably don't help.

The apprentices line up, eyes on Dorian. He curls his fingers around his staff, other raised his above his head, then—fire. It twists up from the ground, but it doesn't burn the grass as the tendrils sway, following the movement of his fingers. Dorian draws his hand in a circle and the flames chase into the sky, darting above his head.

Vivienne paces in front of the apprentices, gesturing between the flames and Dorian. The apprentices stare, open-mouthed.

Iron Bull doesn't like magic. Not really. It's unnatural, and the way it crawls over his skin—he thinks _predator_  and looks for sharp teeth or a blade, not slender people with sticks. And it doesn't help that Dorian makes it look easy. Like a dance. His body moves in time with whatever his mind provides, and the fire follows.

It's also pretty fucking hot.

Dorian gets a look in his eyes when he's concentrating. Iron Bull knows it well. He sees it when Dorian is bent over his lap, pushing into the heavy palm on his head—or when Dorian is straddling his hips, bottom lip caught between his teeth.

Iron Bull shifts his weight discreetly, grateful for the distance.

Eventually, the fire fades, and Vivienne leads the apprentices back to the castle. Iron Bull slips two fingers into his mouth and whistles. Dorian glances up, straightening when he spots the source of the sound, and walks over.

"I didn't realize you were there," says Dorian. He's breathing a little heavily, and sweat has gathered in the hollow of his throat. Iron Bull wants to lick it off. "What are you up to?"

"Watching you," says Iron Bull, staring. His gaze drifts from Dorian's throat down to his boots and back up, lingering on any bare skin.

Dorian chuckles. He rests his elbow on top of the stone and leans his weight into it, folding his hands together. "You're filthy."

"Yeah," Iron Bull admits. He leans against the stone, too, and watches the emotions flickering over Dorian's face. There is no apprehension, so he drops his voice and adds, "You're gorgeous, though."

"I am, aren't I," says Dorian, grinning. He inches closer, until their knees brush together, and flattens his palm against Iron Bull's belly. "You know, if you keep looking at me like that, we won't make it to a bed."

" _Really_ ," says Iron Bull, drawing the word out into extra syllables. He can spot fourteen guards, and that's not counting the ones behind walls, inside the towers, or down below. Or any of the other people who wander Skyhold during the day. "Fuck, are you serious?"

"Maybe," Dorian answers. He nods towards the stables and pushes on Iron Bull's belly, nudging him off the stone. "Are you allergic to hay?"


	9. "I thought you were dead." (Iron Bull/Dorian)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 29\. "I thought you were dead."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Originally posted on Tumblr](http://zythepsary.tumblr.com/post/122211411063/adoribull-number-29-for-the-meme-d).

Three days have passed since Dorian went missing.

Iron Bull trudges through the snow, following Cassandra's path. Wind bites into his exposed skin, and his teeth ache with every breath. He doesn't care. Those red templars have at least a day on them, but they leave trails between hastily hidden camps and flasks, reeking of lyrium.

They stole Dorian in the middle of the night, at a newly established camp. Eleven Inquisition soldiers dead, all to take one prize, and Iron Bull has fresh scars on his belly from one of the little ones with the bulky daggers for arms. He hadn't been able to do a damned thing—had been pinned, bleeding and nearly unconscious, while one of the behemoths slammed Dorian's head into the ground and hauled him over its shoulder.

When the trail runs cold, Iron Bull says, "I can move faster on my own."

It's not the first time he's suggested this, and it won't be the last. But Trevelyan shakes her head, so he follows her.

They keep to higher ground all day, looking for any sign of the templars or Dorian. There is still no trail, and no lyrium flasks, but they do find charred and burned trees.

"That's friendly fire," says Cole. He tugs on Iron Bull's wrist and grins, pointing at the nearest tree.

They follow the path that Dorian has left for them. It twists through the mountains, avoiding the caves, and sometimes doubles back. Flasks crunch under his boots, disappearing into the snow, and then—

Smoke. Two fires. Lines of tents. Armor, clanking.

Trevelyan barks an order that Iron Bull hardly hears over the rush in his ears.

He charges.

Two arrows glance off his shoulder. One soldier comes closer, red eyes glowing faintly behind the helm, and Iron Bull buries his axe in their chest before they can draw their sword. A familiar warmth settles over his back, humming and dancing along his skin, and he throws all his weight into one of the knights, hoping his barrier will absorb most of the damage.

It doesn't, but he likes a little blood.

In the end, Iron Bull's axe is red and dripping, and he has a fresh hole in his shoulder. He ignores it and yanks at the nearest tent, listening to Cassandra call Dorian's name.

"Over here," is the quiet response from the other side of the camp.  


Trevelyan flings herself towards his voice, leaving a haze of cold air behind, and Iron Bull follows. His hands are slick with sweat and blood, sending his axe to the ground, and his pulse thrashes wildly in his throat.

When he reaches the tent, Trevelyan is saying, "You're all right," in a calm and soothing tone. She's kneeling, leaning forward, and he can't _see_ —

Iron Bull crumbles to the ground and pushes the tent flap off to the side.

Dorian is inside, cross-legged and pale, with vivid, purple bruises on both cheeks. He makes a pained noise and reaches over, grasping desperately at Iron Bull's hands.

"They told me," says Dorian, his voice shaking, "that you were—I thought you were dead, Bull, I thought—"  


"No," Iron Bull cuts in. He grabs Dorian's hands, tugging them towards his chest. "No. Still breathing. Hey, you took my line, asshole. You're the one who got kidnapped. _I_ thought you were dead."

Dorian snorts, but he doesn't object to being pulled closer. He flattens his palms against Iron Bull's chest, sighing, and slumps forward.

"I'm quite pleased to see you," says Dorian, and Iron Bull closes his eye.


	10. "No one needs to know." (Iron Bull/Dorian)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 47\. "No one needs to know."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Originally posted on Tumblr](http://zythepsary.tumblr.com/post/124623234468/adoribull-47-no-one-needs-to-know).

In a secluded corner of the library, a boy whispers, "No one needs to know," and reaches hesitantly for Dorian in the dark. They are fourteen, fumbling with belts and buckles. Dorian never learns his name.

*

During the seventh course at a boring dinner party, Dorian watches Rilienus and thinks, _No one needs to know_. He is laughing, shoulders shaking, and he winks when Dorian makes a dismissive comment about their host. That sweet mouth curves into a smile, long fingers curling around a wine glass, and Dorian imagines of pressing light kisses across his skin. _I could kiss you, and no one has to know_.

*

In a brothel in the slums, a whore sighs and says, "No one needs to know," when Dorian is too drunk to stand in the morning. He is beautiful, slim and bright-eyed with pointed ears hidden under a clutter of dark hair, and Dorian would fuck him through the mattress if he could move without vomiting. "Pay me for another night, and you can stay. It'll be extra if you're sick."

*

In Iron Bull's room, the sounds of the tavern muted behind the closed door, Dorian rolls onto his back.

"You can stay," Iron Bull says. He leans against the headboard, sheets gathered around his legs, and reaches for a bottle of wine on the bedside table. "I'll fuck you again in the morning."

Dorian pushes himself up, shaking his head. He doesn't want guards or anyone else seeing him leave Bull's quarters in the morning. Bad enough that the tavern girls will know. "No, I think not."

Iron Bull nods and traces the lip of the wine bottle with his thumb. He watches Dorian stand, gaze lingering, and feigns guilt when Dorian glances over his shoulder.

"What? I like looking at you."

It might be one of the nicest things someone has said to Dorian after fucking him, which is laughable. What a hopeless man he is. Dorian turns away from Iron Bull's grin and busies himself with a search for his clothing.

"I would appreciate it," says Dorian, as he steps into his trousers and grimaces at the slide of fabric against his sweaty skin, "if you kept this between us. No one needs to know."

Thankfully, Iron Bull doesn't argue. He stretches to place the empty bottle on the floor, saying, "I don't care what people know," and leans back, scratching absently absently at his belly. "But I can do that. Question for you, though."

Dorian tugs his boots on and looks up, waiting.

"You think you'll get curious again?"

"Hm," Dorian says, to fill the silence while he thinks about lying. It probably won't work. "Perhaps. I don't know if anyone has ever told you, but you have a considerable cock."

Iron Bull tips his head back, laughing. His horns scrape against the wall. "No one's ever said _considerable._  Usually _big_ , or _huge_."

"You ought to fuck people with a better vocabulary, then," says Dorian. He straightens and attempts to smooth his hair, keeping his eyes firmly above Iron Bull's waist. "Well. Thank you for the sex and cheap whisky."

"Any time. I'll keep my door open for you."


	11. "You fainted…straight into my arms." (Iron Bull/Dorian)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 38\. "You fainted…straight into my arms. You know, if you wanted my attention you didn’t have to go to such extremes."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Originally posted on Tumblr](http://zythepsary.tumblr.com/post/124631555458/adoribull-38-you-faintedstraight-into-my-arms).

It is cold, and the red templars are relentless. Iron Bull has to focus on walking in a straight line.

Blackwall takes the rear, dragging his heavy armor through the snow. Dorian shivers, complaining bitterly about the weather, and glares at Iron Bull's bare chest whenever he can. Cadash buries herself in two extra coats and, after one long fight, warms her hands over a still-burning corpse.

"This is undignified," says Dorian, grimacing. Cadash rubs her hands together.

When they make camp, Iron Bull takes first watch. He sits, greataxe resting over his legs, and watches the shadows until Blackwall wakes.

"I got this," Iron Bull says, keeping his voice low. Blackwall used his shield more than usual today, and his left knee always gives him trouble in the cold.

Blackwall shakes his head, mouth twisting stubbornly under his beard. "You had my watch last night."

"Not for long. The boss took over," Iron Bull says, because a lie is easy. Especially the simple ones. "Rest up. We've barely touched the quarries. Tomorrow will be a long day."

Blackwall gives in, eventually. He murmurs his thanks and disappears into the tent, and Iron Bull returns to his watch.

Hours pass. Dorian is a heavy sleeper, and Cadash is when she's exhausted, so neither of them wake. Iron Bull lets them sleep and lies again in the morning, telling Cadash and Dorian that he slept while the other took watch. That lie can't last forever, but it will survive until tonight, at least.

Sleep is necessary, but he can function without it. Has, before. In Seheron, he managed just fine.

*

There are more red templars.

Iron Bull is dizzy, but he fights, ignoring the false shadows along the edge of his vision. His skull lurches with every swing, and the sky tips to the side when he turns. He reminds himself to watch the little one, with the daggers. Keep the swordsmen away from Dorian. Let Blackwall trade shots with the big one. Give Cadash enough room to throw her blades. Use the snow. Run, crash into—let them swing, and—

"There," Iron Bull says, as the final enemy falls. "Last one."

Cadash cleans her daggers in the snow, and Blackwall wipes the blood off his shield.

"—can't eat pork," Dorian says, sighing. Iron Bull blinks.

They're walking. Wolves howl in the distance, and birds scatter from the trees when they pass. Cold seeps through his boots.

"Bull," Cadash says, and she sounds furious. His lie, he thinks. "Bull, you should have told me."

Iron Bull focuses on the path ahead. "I'm used to this."

*

More.

Warmth spreads over his skin, humming, and arrows skim over the barrier as Iron Bull moves between enemies. Blackwall follows, always close to his back, and Cadash is not far behind.

Their enemies fall, again.

"Bull," says Cadash, when she has picked the corpses clean. She gnaws on her lower lip. "How long? Two days? Three?"

"I told you," Iron Bull replies. He fixes his eye on the next quarry. "I'm used to this."

*

Half the quarries are clear, but the nearest Inquisition camp is too far away. They'll have to make camp, or they'll risk fighting the wildlife at night. Iron Bull has a fresh scar on his back from a few days earlier, when a bear got her claws in him and yanked.

They find a suitable spot on a hill, tucked against the tree line. Iron Bull sets up the tent with Cadash, and—

He is standing in front of a fire. He doesn't remember who built it, but the flames are warm, caressing his skin with care—no. Fingers. Smooth. No callouses. Smells like ink and elfroot.

"—else can take watch," Dorian is saying. He strokes Iron Bull's cheek with his thumb, smiling faintly. Looks tired. Needs more sleep. He always loses his balance when he's tired. Has twisted his ankle a few times.

"Dorian," Iron Bull murmurs. He can carry him tomorrow, if he needs to. They need Dorian's fire more than his dignity.

"—too long—"

Iron Bull falls.

*

He searches for a weapon before his eye adjusts to the dark.

His hand hits something soft—a body?—and when he sits up, his horns are caught on—something. He smells fire, the bite of cold air. Something churns in his belly and his head swims, but Dorian is saying his name.

Iron Bull blinks and stills, breathing deeply. He is in a tent—on the hill, along the forest, in the snowy Dales. Dorian is crouched in front of him, blocking his view outside. Cadash is at the opposite side of the tent, eyes on him, and Blackwall is between them, pretending to be asleep.

He flexes his fingers, waiting for his hands to steady.

"Sorry for waking you," Iron Bull murmurs. Cadash nods and rolls over, burying her head in the crook of her elbow.

"All right?" Dorian asks. His breath lingers in the air.

"Yeah." The fire, and Dorian's hand on his cheek— "Did I fall on you?"

"You fainted. Straight into my arms."

Iron Bull grimaces. Dorian is sturdy for a mage, but he's a bit smaller than a qunari.

"Sorry," he says. He rests his hands on his thighs and bows his head, trying to calm the waves crashing around in his head. "I really wanted your attention."

Dorian scoffs at that. Iron Bull hears him shift, knees moving in the packed snow, and then he touches Iron Bull's hand. Cold fingers brush against his and squeeze, lightly.

"Sleep, Bull. Dream about what I can do when we don't have an audience."

Iron Bull glances up, grinning. That isn't something Dorian would have said a few weeks ago. Endless pride swells in his chest.

"Yeah, sleep," Cadash says. She rolls onto her back, stretching her arms above her head. "Or I'll tell Varric about how you _swooned_."

"Ah, no." Dorian scoops a handful of snow and aims at her, but ends up tossing it at the side of the tent. "I'll never hear the end of it."

"That's the point," Cadash says, laughing, and Blackwall groans.

Guilt slips through the mud in Iron Bull's head. He woke them up with his thrashing, after a long day of fighting and marching through the snow. He murmurs another apology, which Blackwall accepts with a grunt, and tugs on Dorian's hand. Dorian stretches close enough for a kiss, warm breath ghosting over Iron Bull's mouth.

"Sleep as long as you need to," Dorian murmurs. He tangles their fingers together and kisses Iron Bull again before he slips away, settling into a spot by the fire.

Iron Bull eases back down, careful not to hit Blackwall with his horns. He closes his eye, listening to the fire hiss and crack.

And sleeps.


	12. "This is without a doubt the stupidest plan you’ve ever had. Of course I'm in." (Iron Bull/Dorian)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 18\. "This is without a doubt the stupidest plan you’ve ever had. Of course I’m in."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Originally posted on Tumblr](http://zythepsary.tumblr.com/post/124712494908/dorianbull-18).

Corypheus is dead, and Skyhold celebrates. Quietly, at first, because everyone is exhausted, and there are dead to mourn. But there is drinking and dancing, and soon, the festivities spill out of the castle into the courtyards and ramparts. It lasts for several days, until Cadash gently encourages everyone to return to work.

Dorian stays.

There are so many things he wants to accomplish back home, but he can still be of use here; there are still small clusters of blighted templars and Venatori lurking throughout Thedas, and more old texts to decipher. And Iron Bull is here. What started as a drunken proposition has turned into something genuine, and Dorian doesn't want to leave that behind.

But he knows he cannot remain at Skyhold forever. His home is broken, and he has wanted to fix it for as long as he can remember. Guilt is a familiar weight on his skin, growing heavier when he remembers how long it has been since he crossed the border. There is only so much he can do through letters.

Months pass before Dorian says, "I need to return home."

It is the early hours, when people are just beginning to gather outside and set up their shops, and music plays faintly along the rumble of conversation in the tavern below. Iron Bull is already awake, skimming reports, and Dorian lies beside him, facing the wall. 

"Everything okay?" Iron Bull asks. He touches Dorian's back, thumb stroking lightly along his shoulder-blades.

"Yes," Dorian answers, as he rolls onto his back. His legs tangle in the sheets when he shifts. "My country requires a great deal of change. I should be there."

He doesn't know what he expects. Disbelief, perhaps, or anger. Resignation. But Iron Bull smiles, chuckling.

"You'll have the Magisterium in the palm of your hand within a day or two," he says. He shuffles the reports together and sets them aside. "When are you leaving?"

Dorian shrugs. He plans on asking Josephine to make arrangements. "Soon."

"I'll miss you."

No hesitation, but words come so easily for Iron Bull. Dorian has always envied that.

"Come with me, then," he blurts out, too quickly. Panic collides with regret when Iron Bull doesn't even blink.

"There's an idea," says Iron Bull, which isn't a rejection, at the very least. He turns onto his side, careful to keep his horns away from the headboard, and studies Dorian for a long moment before touching his chest. Callused fingers splay out over his skin. "What's your plan?"

"I don't know what I'll do when I get there," Dorian admits. He touches Iron Bull's hand, tracing the latest scars over his knuckles. "If I ever come up with a plan, it'll be a stupid one. I'll probably be assassinated within a year."

"Not with the Chargers guarding you," Iron Bull replies, and something warm twists behind Dorian's ribs.

"How much will that cost me?"

Iron Bull leans down and presses a damp kiss to Dorian's throat. His hand slides lower. "I'll give you a discount."


	13. "It could be worse." (Iron Bull/Dorian)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 16\. "It could be worse."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Originally posted on Tumblr](http://zythepsary.tumblr.com/post/129925860183/adoribull-16).

In a hidden corner of the Emerald Graves, their target makes a final attempt.

The mage flings himself backwards, away from Cassandra's shield, and sweeps his staff in a practiced arc. Fire swells over the ground, spitting flames into the air, but all Iron Bull feels is the heat. He's used to fire. Usually, he doesn't notice a burn until much later, when the fight is finished and he has time to breathe.

Cadash shoves a poisoned blade between the mage's ribs. The man gasps, fumbling to stop the blood spilling from the wound, and Iron Bull buries his axe in the man's throat. Better to end this quickly. The fire expands, flames licking at his ankles, but it's done. He kicks at the mage's knees, nudging the corpse onto the ground, and starts to tug his axe free. Demons spring from mages after they're dead, sometimes, and he prefers fighting those things with a good weapon in his hands.

Behind him, there is a cry of pain. Iron Bull turns, panic twisting sharply in his belly, and sees Dorian: hunched over, face hidden in one hand. He grips his staff with the other, fingers twisting tightly. Cadash looks worried and calls his name, but he ignores her.

Iron Bull leaves his axe behind and rushes over, charred grass snapping under his boots. Something else is still burning; he can smell it.

Dorian still doesn't look up. Iron Bull tilts his head and tries to get a better look, murmuring, "Look at me." Vivienne isn't here, but there is a surgeon back at camp. She can fix what's burned, and Vivienne can heal the scars that Dorian is too vain for. "It's okay. Let me see."

"It's nothing," says Dorian. His voice sounds oddly muffled, like he has a cold. He straightens, letting his hand fall away, 

Half the mustache is gone, and the skin below is pink and irritated. A burst of flame must have singed the hair away. Relief washes over Iron Bull, quickly enough that his shoulders slump with the force of it, and a burst of laughter struggles to get free. He swallows it, hiding the sound with a smile. Dorian's nose wrinkles.

"This smells terrible," says Dorian grimly. He touches what's left of his mustache, frowning. "Cassandra, I'm fine. Sop looking at me like that. And you," he adds, jabbing a finger at Iron Bull. He slips his staff over his shoulder, sighing. "I'm not injured."

"You sure?" Iron Bull presses.

"It's the _smell_ ," says Dorian, wrinkling his nose again. "Dreadful. I can't bear it."

Iron Bull slings an arm over Dorian's shoulders, tugging him closer. Dorian scoffs and feigns ducking away, but he leans into Iron Bull's side. Warmth spreads through Iron Bull's chest. He ducks down, pressing a quick kiss to the top of Dorian's head. When Dorian groans, Iron Bull feels the hidden smile ghost over his skin.

"It could be worse," says Iron Bull. He guides Dorian over to the mage's corpse, where Cadash is struggling to tug his axe free. "What if you lost your nose?"

Dorian gasps. "I doubt you could stand the sight of me."

"I will _always_ stand the sight of you," says Iron Bull. Dorian grumbles about tawdry displays of affection and touches the hand on his shoulder, linking their fingers together.

Cadash finally yanks the axe loose and bends over, hands on her knees. She sucks in a quick breath. "Shit, that thing's heavy."

"You're used to your dainty knives," Iron Bull tells her, chuckling when she gestures at him with two fingers. He rubs his thumb along Dorian's neck before he steps away and heaves the axe onto his shoulder. "We good?"

Cadash nods and glances at Dorian, hiding a grin. Cassandra murmurs a prayer over the fallen mage before they head for camp.

On the way, they stop at a stream to refill their canteens. Dorian, looking somber, removes a blade from the pouch on his hip and crouches to splash water on his face. He studies the blade, frowning.

Iron Bull wonders why he's so upset over facial hair. Maybe it's because he usually shaves with an overpriced razor and perfumed oils, and conjured grease and a utility knife aren't meant for highborn Vint mages. No, Iron Bull decides, as Dorian peers at his reflection in the water. The mustache is a part of him, as silly as that sounds. He knows he'd be upset if he lost half his rack. At least the mustache will grow back.

"There," says Dorian, when he's finished. He wipes the blade on his thigh, returns it to the pouch, and stands. Seeing him without a carefully trimmed mustache is jarring. He looks younger, too; Iron Bull wonders if that's why he grew it in the first place. "Don't."

"I didn't say anything."

"You looked like you were about to _coo_ ," says Dorian, scowling. He brushes pebbles and dirt off his knees.

"Aw," says Iron Bull, if only to make Dorian roll his eyes. He steps closer and touches Dorian's face, smiling when Dorian tips his head back and allows Iron Bull to trace the line of his jaw. "You just look…" He rubs his thumb along Dorian's mouth, then the smooth skin where his mustache was. "Different."

Dorian leans into Iron Bull's palm, sighing. "I feel naked."

"Not yet." Iron Bull tilts his head towards the other side of the stream, where Cadash and Cassandra are waiting. "Boss is watching. That'd be weird."

" _Bull_ ," says Dorian, sounding appalled, but the smile tugging on the corner of his mouth says otherwise. "Do you plan on kissing me? I can take only so much of this staring—"

Iron Bull bends down, pressing their mouths together. That's different, too; he's so used to the way Dorian's mustache tickles. But Dorian still hums and inches closer, hands splayed over Iron Bull's chest.

"—business," Dorian finishes, and his face lights up when he grins.


	14. "Wait a minute. Are you jealous?" (Alistair/Zevran)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 5\. "Wait a minute. Are you jealous?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Originally posted on Tumblr](http://zythepsary.tumblr.com/post/130106555803/if-your-still-doing-the-ficlet-challenge5).

The sun was barely a smudge on the horizon when Alistair awoke to someone prodding his head. He cursed, swatting wildly until he hit something. There was a deep chuckle, then callused fingers touched his chin, lifting his head up.

"Did you fall asleep out here?" Zevran asked. His chest was bare, trousers riding low, and dark tattoos curled over his hips. The two braids were undone, leaving his hair in messy tangles around his face. He pushed his fingers through his hair, frowning when he found a knot.

Alistair tore his eyes away, staring at the closed tent. Remembered—

Last night. Mahariel and Zevran, disappearing into a tent. Alistair had wanted to protest about Mahariel being alone with an assassin who was relentlessly cheerful about murder—and who had _tried to kill them_ , which Alistair was still bothered by—but the tent remained firmly closed, and. Well. They had been spending a lot of time together lately, and he hesitated at the possibility of interrupting something naked and sweaty, choosing to sit on a nearby log instead.

And had promptly fallen asleep, like the child he was. If Mahariel had been hurt, he would have been too late to save him. Alistair's stomach twisted.

Luckily, Mahariel chose that moment to snore rather loudly and roll over, colliding with the tent wall. Alistair squeezed his eyes shut for a moment, sending a silent prayer of thanks.

"And in full armor, too," said Zevran. His eyes flicked from Alistair to the sword and shield at his feet. "My friend, what debauchery have you imagined this time?"

"What?" Alistair all but shouted, far too quickly. Heat traveled up the back of his neck. They probably _had_ spent the night doing—things. With each other. Men did that. He'd slept in the barracks before. He knew what that sounded like. "Didn't you know? I can fall asleep anywhere." Pain stretched over his back when he squared his shoulders and rested his palms on the log. The bark was cold, and the damp seeped into his skin. "Actually, after all those years in the stables, I prefer the ground to a bed."

Zevran hummed and nodded, but Alistair doubted he believed a word of it. "How much did you overhear?"

Right to it, then. Alistair grimaced. "Nothing." He remembered the quiet murmur of their voices, but no actual words. "Sorry. I—"

"You were curious," said Zevran, low and soft, and the way he spoke made Alistair's skin tingle. He knelt on the ground— _why_ , Alistair wondered—and tilted his head, staring. "Or jealous? Ah, there it is. The scowl." His hand shot up and jabbed Alistair's cheek. "Your face will stick like that, you know."

He attempted another jab, but Alistair caught his wrist before he could connect. "I'm not jealous of you."

"If you say so," said Zevran. He didn't move his hand. His pulse beat steadily under Alistair's thumb. "But if you were, I would suggest you direct your envy towards the witch. She has his eye."

Alistair hadn't noticed that. He frowned. "Really?"

"Yes," Zevran answered. A smile twitched at the corner of his mouth. "It is quite obvious, if you know where to look."

"I thought I did," said Alistair. He searched his memories, trying to remember a time when Mahariel acted differently towards Morrigan, but came up with nothing. They still spoke formally to each other, only discussing the next objective and plans for the day. Maker's breath, Mahariel was friendlier with _Sten_. "But if he's interested in her, why—? That is, why did you two, um—"

"As charming as this is," Zevran interrupted, to Alistair's immense relief, "I must ask you to stop before all your blood rises to your cheeks. The pink flatters you, but the red does not."

" _Pink_ ," said Alistair, scowling, but Zevran cut him off again.

"Is a lovely shade, particularly on you. But we were discussing Mahariel, yes?" Zevran tilted his head towards the tent, where Mahariel was still snoring lightly. "He misses his clan. I miss Antiva. We drank and traded stories all night."

"Oh." Embarrassment still prickled hotly over Alistair's neck. Everyone had to think he was a fool, standing guard outside a friend's tent for nothing. "I see."

"As I'm sure you know, he snores," Zevran went on. Alistair grimaced in sympathy, remembering the road to Lothering and the way Mahariel sprawled over him in the small tent. "And drools like his mabari. Usually, I enjoy myself in a man's bed—oh, look. Pink again."

Zevran curled his fingers against Alistair's cheek, grinning, and—

It occurred to Alistair that he was still holding Zevran's wrist somewhat close to his face. A strange sort of panic bloomed in his belly, souring his tongue. He released his grip, watching Zevran's hand fall through the air—and land on his knee, fingers stroking too delicately before Zevran lowered his hand.

"You," said Alistair, his pulse thumping in his throat. He exhaled sharply through his nose, unsure of—everything, really. It was becoming rapidly difficult to focus on anything but the way Zevran knelt. The naked skin. Oh, Maker. "You did that on purpose."

Zevran lifted one shoulder in a half-hearted shrug. "Perhaps. Does that offend you?"

It had to be too early for this. That was something people said, wasn't it? "No? I mean—" Alistair cleared his throat, suddenly grateful that everyone else seemed to be asleep. "Do what you like."

That seemed to amuse Zevran, since he grinned again and chuckled quietly. He rested his hands on his own knees, which only drew Alistair's attention lower for a second too long. "Very well."

Silence. Alistair fought the urge to fidget. That lasted for only a few moments before he blurted, "Sorry for—assuming. That wasn't kind of me."

"Assuming that I bedded your Grey Warden, or that I attempted to kill him in a well-lit camp surrounded by people who would gut me the moment I emerged from the tent?"

"Both, I suppose."

"Apology accepted," said Zevran, nodding. His hands shifted higher, up to his thighs. "I must admit, I'm a little hurt. All this time we've spent traveling together, and I still don't have your trust?"

"I do trust you," said Alistair, a little weakly. Zevran stared at him, one eyebrow arched. "Well, I _want_ to," he added, which didn't help. He cringed, wishing he hadn't said anything at all. "That's not much better, is it."

"It means more than you think," Zevran replied quietly, and something like pity pressed against Alistair's ribs. But the wide smile returned, and Zevran added, "You should join us next time. Corrupt me with tales of your Chantry, with its handsome templars and tempting Sisters."

Alistair snorted. "I doubt I could corrupt you."

"You would be surprised," said Zevran, his voice dipping low again, and—his thumbs. Rubbing in slow circles along the inside of his thighs. Alistair stared, thinking obscenely about the leather armor Zevran favored and the few inches of bare skin above his knees. Oh, Maker, if—if he sat there, thighs wide, hands disappearing under the—

He jerked his head up, cheeks flushed. Zevran said nothing, but his eyes were bright.

"That was on purpose, too," said Alistair. He nearly gestured at Zevran's hands and thought better of it, fingers twisting together in his lap. "Wasn't it?"

"It is an implied offer, my friend," Zevran answered. He rose to his feet and leaned down, pressing his mouth to Alistair's ear. "To satisfy your curiosity, should the occasion arise."


End file.
